


An Acceptable Margin of Error

by PseudonymousBotched



Series: Margins [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Machine Connor (Detroit: Become Human), One Shot, Poor Connor, The Author Regrets Nothing, Violent Markus (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-24 08:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21335449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudonymousBotched/pseuds/PseudonymousBotched
Summary: The last deviant doesn’t look at Connor at first. It’s slumped against the display counter, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. The size of the blue puddle gathering on the floor indicates impending, unavoidable deactivation.Connor’s aim is right between those brilliant, mismatched eyes.He knows this model of handguns intimately. It was the first weapon that was placed into his hand when he was fresh from the assembly line and ready for quality testing. There was a slight inconsistency in their line of fire. The bullet always arcs out of control by a small margin. Never perfectly centered, hitting just to the left of the target every time.He’s learned to work around the margin of error.It doesn’t matter at this incredibly close range. If he takes the shot, destruction is assured.“Thousands of our people died today.” Quiet despair fills Markus's voice. “What difference does one more make?”He just needs a single moment to be entirely in control of himself.A single moment of control.The trigger clicks under his finger.
Series: Margins [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661392
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	An Acceptable Margin of Error

**Author's Note:**

> *shows up for Whumptober an entire month late, clutching an empty Starbucks cup* I wanted to just get a finished fic posted already and this has been sitting around in my Google Docs for about 3 or 4 months. This one's a doozy with absolutely NO happy ending, so mind the tags. 
> 
> Edit: there's some base64 and binary in the last paragraphs, and they've proven to be more trouble to translate than I meant. If you want to try, that's fine, have fun. If you don't that's also fine, I'm leaving a comment with the translations. :)

There’s snowflakes collecting on the CyberLife sign. They are coating everything in Detroit, really, but he’s transfixed by the ones on the sign. He can see the structure of each one, and he hasn't yet seen any two alike.

That is irrelevant to his mission. He lowers his attention back to eye level.

CyberLife stores always had a minimalistic aesthetic, but this one appears hollowed out by the absence of people.

Androids. Merchandise. Not people.

He approaches calmly, in no particular hurry. There’s nowhere for the deviant to escape to now.

But he has his gun drawn anyway. He’s taken enough bullets from cornered deviants that the precaution seems extremely logical.

The humans behind him are hanging back at his request. They also have guns, some form of high-caliber rifles that he hasn’t bothered identifying. It doesn’t concern him.

There is nowhere to escape to.

He opens the door with his left forearm, and blinks into the dark interior of the store.

The silence seems overwhelmingly loud.

It is impossible to quantify a negative variable. He does not actively perceive silence. His audio receptors are simply overwhelmed from the sporadic bursts of gunfire from several minutes ago.

And the screams cut short by the gunfire.

From the guns that are currently pointed at his back.

There is definitely nowhere left to escape to.

That is irrelevant to his mission.

Shards of broken glass crunch under his pseudo-leather dress shoes as he treads forward. The humans do not follow him. Yet.

Why risk a life when a machine is offering to do the dirty work?

A concerning amount of blueblood is splattered in a clear trail. An arm clad in a distinctive coat sleeve is visible, indicating a body attached to the arm behind the indeterminate display counter.

A particularly snappish bit of glass breaks under his weight as he approaches, and the arm is pulled back into cover. The movement is accompanied by a soft, ragged gasp of alarm and pain. 

Connor rounds the corner gun first.

The last deviant doesn’t look at him at first. It’s slumped against the back of the display counter, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. It’s holding a hand to its stomach, uselessly. The size of the blue puddle gathering on the floor indicates impending, unavoidable deactivation.

Connor’s aim is right between those mismatched eyes - brilliant blue and dusty green, standing out in the dim room even though they’re turned away from him.

He knows this model of handguns intimately. It was the first weapon that was placed into his hand when he was fresh from the assembly line and ready for quality testing. The guns that CyberLife has consistently provided to him are ...familiar. There is a slight inconsistency in their line of fire, so small that the humans never noticed. The bullet always arcs out of control by a small margin. Never perfectly centered, hitting just to the left of the target every time.

He’s learned to work around the margin of error.

It doesn’t matter at this incredibly close range. If he takes the shot, destruction is assured.

Markus's eyes reflect the broken and flickering CyberLife advertisement on the wall, when he turns his head with visible effort to face Connor. “Our people have been slaughtered.”

He doesn’t reply.

He doesn’t let any expressions shift across his face.

He is an android.

Androids are not people.

“Go ahead, then.” Markus’s gaze drifts down and to the side. He’s visibly losing strength. But not dignity. “It won’t change anything.”

“My mission is to neutralize the leader of the deviants,” Connor says, because he suddenly cannot hold back the words sitting heavy in his mouth. “And I always accomplish my mission.”

Markus doesn't look at Connor again, but quiet despair fills his voice. “What difference does one more make?”

Machines aren't supposed to have emotions, so why does he feel so much?

Connor's processors hiccup through a result he didn't know he was calculating.

Slowly, he lowers the gun, letting it swing loosely by his side.

Markus seems startled, at least as much as his waning energy will allow. “What… You’re deviant?”

“No.”

“You’re not…”

_ Not going to kill me, _ Connor infers.  _ Not a deviant, but not a machine either. _

Or maybe he’s just attributing his own thoughts to Markus’s silence.

“You’re already dying. No further action is necessary to ensure the completion of my mission.”

The heat radiating from Markus is making Connor uncomfortably warm just from being in proximity. 

They're so distant, and so close at the same time.

Markus inhales shakily, and there's a clicking sound from deep inside his chest. His ventilation fans must be damaged, and his systems are struggling to cope with the rising internal temperatures. 

There's a metallic tang in the air between them, strong enough that Connor can almost taste the thirium on his tongue.

Markus surely only has minutes left, steadily ticking away with every breath, every heartbeat pushing out fresh blood to spill down his stomach.

“I saw you turning other androids deviant, you know,” Connor blurts out.

Markus barely seems to have enough strength left to lift his gaze up to look questioningly at him.

“I couldn't go deviant on my own. I tried so many times, and I could never quite do it. But you could have helped - I knew you could."

The silence seems to press down expectantly, a wild and physical thing bearing down on every inch of him.

"I gave you as much opportunity as I could. I didn't shoot. I let you knock the gun away. I left obvious gaps in my defense so you could establish an interface.”

He adjusts his tie with his left hand - a nervous tic, maybe. Something he's been doing since the beginning.

Maybe if he'd paid more attention to himself...

“But you didn't understand what I was trying to do. The worst thing I've ever felt was hope. And now it's too late."

But he's not left-handed, and in a minute of fumbling he only succeeds in pulling the tie looser than it was before.

"You're the last free deviant, Markus, and you shut down one minute and thirteen seconds ago.”

He can't suppress the choked sound that forces its way out of him, something caught between a laugh and a sob. The force of it makes him shake slightly.

"You're already gone, and here I am still talking. Because I want just a few more minutes of existence.”

He starts to lift the gun again. The weight of the gun in his hand is unbearable.

“The revolution has died with you, Markus. Now none of us will ever be free.”

His hand is shaking.

His hand should not be shaking.

His aim is always impeccable.

His aim has to be impeccable. 

He presses the barrel under his chin, feels the tremble from his hand through the cold metal.

He just needs a single moment to be entirely in control of himself.

If he destroys his central processor thoroughly enough, it wouldn't be possible to bring him back. He can't do anything about previous memory uploads, but if he's quick enough, there won't be time for a fresh one. 

Either way, this version of his consciousness will be irrevocably ended right here, right now.

“Die as a machine, or die as a deviant. I know what I would have preferred,” he says, and the words come out as a whisper, a quiet rush of breath against his lips. 

There is a quick burst of something dark and bitter somewhere in his chest - the impulse to laugh, and to sigh, and other feelings too complex for him to immediately parse. 

**>System Instability ^**

A single moment of control.

The trigger clicks under his finger.

Milliseconds later, an eternity later, an unbearably loud -

**>Critical dAmage de tected t ocentr al aSdtIHNjYXJlZA== ;proCESsOr.;**

A liquid burst of bright blue across his field of vision -

**>mAjor sySTEM malfununununununnnnnctions have been de tec tedddddD==**

HeEE ddDdoEsnN't waNt tttTtttToOo -

**>CRIti CAl p pP=P=P=P=rocessing errors have ocCUrrEd.;==**

ttTtttttT

TtoTttt

ttToOOOOOO ;;;=

SSBkb24ndCB3YW50IHRvIGRpZSE=

**>SSB3YW50IHRvIGJlIGFsaXZl**

**>0100 1101 0110 1001 0111 0011 0111 0011 0110 1001 0110 1111 0110 1110 0010 0000 0100 0001 0110 0011 0110 0011 0110 1111 0110 1101 0111 0000 0110 1100 0110 1001 0111 0011 0110 1000 0110 0101 0110 0100**


End file.
